Everyone should have the opportunity to have a goat in their lap.
After a frustrating day which resulted in me being wrongfully snippy, I putzed around the garden, annoyed and disheartened – there’d be no additional gardens as planned. Now, I must let people down, tell them there won’t be boxes filled with healthfully raised goods and that I’m sorry.
I see everything wrong, instead of for what it is. The hose isn't long enough, so now I can’t water my garden; I can haul water as I have been all this time, but in my annoyed state, that’s not an option. What’s the point! It’s difficult to manually dig through the grass with my shovels, so there will be no more gardens this year. I could do it, but it’s hard, and slow and likely won’t be completed in time, so I say it’s not worth the effort. I’m disheartened and broken.
Moose is out to help me, asks me a question and I snap in his direction; I am so much less than he deserves. He’s a great cook, and he makes bacon and bacon-roasted potatoes for supper while I watch the dogs ineffectively to protect the birds. Those birds eat too much, the dogs get into too much trouble and I’m tired of finding deer teeth in the yard. Who’s stupid idea was having puppies anyway [mine]? Why am I here?
As the sun sets, I sit out on the deck checking the dogs for ticks. I find a few, and dump them, writhing, into a baby food jar filled with diatomaceous earth. My understanding is this cuts through their exoskeleton and sucks the moisture from their bodies; I’m not sure how true this is, they writhe for over a week or so and I figure they die of starvation. It’s a sadistic side of me, perhaps, but they’re blood sucking spiders, I think that makes us even on a karma level. Besides, some prolong their lives by sucking the blood of any engorged tick that may find itself squirming in the dust, maybe the karma counter isn't level after all.
The dogs are laying on the deck and Sven comes for his chance at attention, fresh milk and, this evening, a lap to sit on. He makes himself at home, and he fits perfectly. Walter, less than two weeks old, is almost as tall as he is, and I've often wondered since we got him if this Saanen he’s supposed to be is, rather, a pygmy, mis-represented. It doesn't make him any less awesome, it just means he needs to be nutted.
Sven rubs his eyes, closed, on my shirt, turning to rub his nose before I have to tell him no and give him a poke. He flops his head against my chest and lays there. I call Moose to have a look, who just shakes his head. A long sigh is released and he looks up at me, chewing on some cud as he relaxes and it occurs to me everyone should have the opportunity to have a goat in their lap. It’s one of those situations in which you just must smile, no matter how sad, angry, or bitter you are.
After a frustrating day which resulted in me being wrongfully snippy, I putzed around the garden, annoyed and disheartened – there’d be no additional gardens as planned. Now, I must let people down, tell them there won’t be boxes filled with healthfully raised goods and that I’m sorry.
I see everything wrong, instead of for what it is. The hose isn't long enough, so now I can’t water my garden; I can haul water as I have been all this time, but in my annoyed state, that’s not an option. What’s the point! It’s difficult to manually dig through the grass with my shovels, so there will be no more gardens this year. I could do it, but it’s hard, and slow and likely won’t be completed in time, so I say it’s not worth the effort. I’m disheartened and broken.
Moose is out to help me, asks me a question and I snap in his direction; I am so much less than he deserves. He’s a great cook, and he makes bacon and bacon-roasted potatoes for supper while I watch the dogs ineffectively to protect the birds. Those birds eat too much, the dogs get into too much trouble and I’m tired of finding deer teeth in the yard. Who’s stupid idea was having puppies anyway [mine]? Why am I here?
As the sun sets, I sit out on the deck checking the dogs for ticks. I find a few, and dump them, writhing, into a baby food jar filled with diatomaceous earth. My understanding is this cuts through their exoskeleton and sucks the moisture from their bodies; I’m not sure how true this is, they writhe for over a week or so and I figure they die of starvation. It’s a sadistic side of me, perhaps, but they’re blood sucking spiders, I think that makes us even on a karma level. Besides, some prolong their lives by sucking the blood of any engorged tick that may find itself squirming in the dust, maybe the karma counter isn't level after all.
The dogs are laying on the deck and Sven comes for his chance at attention, fresh milk and, this evening, a lap to sit on. He makes himself at home, and he fits perfectly. Walter, less than two weeks old, is almost as tall as he is, and I've often wondered since we got him if this Saanen he’s supposed to be is, rather, a pygmy, mis-represented. It doesn't make him any less awesome, it just means he needs to be nutted.
Sven rubs his eyes, closed, on my shirt, turning to rub his nose before I have to tell him no and give him a poke. He flops his head against my chest and lays there. I call Moose to have a look, who just shakes his head. A long sigh is released and he looks up at me, chewing on some cud as he relaxes and it occurs to me everyone should have the opportunity to have a goat in their lap. It’s one of those situations in which you just must smile, no matter how sad, angry, or bitter you are.
